


Ode to a Wilted Lavender

by griffle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Hogwarts, Death, F/F, Other, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Sad, Sad Ending, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffle/pseuds/griffle
Summary: An unnamed Ravenclaw meets and falls for Lavender Brown.
Relationships: Lavender Brown & Original Female Character, Lavender Brown & Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 5





	Ode to a Wilted Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story has been rolling around for a while. 
> 
> Anyway, 
> 
> Enjoy

She never really got to know her.

She wasn’t part of the group after all. She was in Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor, and not only that, a year below the famous Trio. Ivy knew about her, definitely- how could anyone not know of the fact that Lavender Brown was dating Ron Weasley, best friend of the Harry Potter? It was school, and while the Second Wizarding War was brewing at that time, with Hogwarts readying for battle and Golden Trio preparing for war- it was still school. Gossip abounded and silly crushes were built and were crushed like their crused name says. 

Inter-house relationships weren’t encouraged as it was now; in fact, encouragement to bring the other houses down was more likely than the words “everybody get along” were to come out of the mouths of the old teachers back in those days. Even so, she’d talked to Lavender Brown once or twice. When Professor Flitwick tried to integrate inter-houses the year above with the year below back in her fourth year, she was paired with Lavender Brown, who looked a bit upset that she wasn’t next to Parvati Patil, her best friend, but the Gryffindor still stayed by her side when his scheme crashed and burned metaphorically and literally. She does remember the girls’ silly little smile, and the way she fluffed her hair as both of them watched as Professor Flitwick tried to calm the chaos in the classroom, chatting on about the Golden Trio and the future and how Professor Trelawney admired her predictions about the future. 

She never quite figured out her feelings about her before Lavender Brown’s death. On one hand: she was obviously a total ditz, silly and sentimental and very much into boys. The way she talked about how she predicted a future with Ron Weaseley (at this she glared at Hermione Granger, who was calmly helping Professor Flitwick take back control of the class) or Dean Thomas or someone else, complete with a house with a white picket fence and a set of twins, well, it was obvious that she was a little “bird-brained” as the saying goes. Absently she wondered if the girl already picked out her wedding dress and felt her eye twitch when she began describing said dress moments later. 

But there was a special beauty inside her. The way her eyes were a-lit with fierce hope of a better tomorrow when she talked about the future, the straightening of her shoulders when she started talking about Harry Potter (every conversation at that moment in history would turn to Harry Potter) and how she was sure that he would vanquish the Dark Lord, filled with determination of a glorious future. Maybe it was the pure brilliance of the color of her hair as the light streamed down (She remember the light: it was a Charm gone wrong that was whizzing through the air) and the way her body felt and the scent of her perfume when the girl pushed her out of the way of a rogue charm moments later and smiled so bright, so sunny, that she were stunned breathless as the other dusted her off and kindly asked if she needed to go to Madam Pomfrey for head injuries. That should’ve been foreshadowing on her sake, not to get involved with Lavender Brown, but she failed Divination and immediately asked for a transfer after the first class. 

That was really the last moment she talked to her, because after she mumbled a reply and went off to ask if Professor Flitwick still needed help (he did.) She was always good at that: damage control. With the assertiveness of Hermione Granger and the quiet help of a small group of worshiping fourth-year students, they managed to get the classroom righted again. 

How odd how that day seemed to foreshadow the future. 

* * *

Never again there wasn’t a time when Lavender Brown wasn’t with her or another member of the Gryffindors in her year, and frankly, they intimidated her. A younger student talking to oppositional House members? Her Superego kicked in and she stayed away, fearful of getting rejected. But she watched and observed like a good little Ravenclaw. 

She learned the bare facts about her, like how much she loved fashion, gossip and her friends. How she was head over heels in love with Ron Weaseley, but stopped seeing him when it became obvious that he was in love with Hermione Granger instead. She gleaned (eavesdropped, though she would gladly lie like a dog to avoid admitting that; she has some sort of pride) when her birthday was, and that she loved Divination because the future had so much to hold, and so much potential, that she had to know it. A very Hermione Granger –like thing, she thought bemusedly to herself. She watched and observed and, over time, somewhat idealized and idolized the Gryffindor in her own mind. Lavender became the Galathea to her Pygmalion, Narcissus to her Echo. She could look, but could not touch. 

Herself mourned when in her fifth year, the Great Albus Dumbledore (once or twice they had actually talked in real life) died, killed by one of the Professors (Professor Snape, who became Headmaster Snape and terrorizer of Hogwarts,) but mostly she watched as rivets of tears fell down Lavender Brown’s face, shoulders shaking horribly as she gripped her friend Patil so tight, it was amazing that Patil didn’t suffocate. She wanted to go over there and help comfort, but something held she back. Something always held her back. So she watched. 

Sixth year was hell. Like others, she too did her part in the Battle of Hogwarts, mostly doing what she did the best: damage control. Helping the Professors keeping everything and everyone safe and secure and helping with wards was her primary job at the Battle. She hesitates to remember that year in full detail, the year filled with fear and blood and mind-numbing, white hot pain of the Cruciatus Curse. She doesn’t try and forget it completely; they need to remember that pain, so to remember why they put up the “Spy Eye Web” around the school and classrooms, why they made sure the place was heavily guarded. Why there was a mandatory Mind-Healer session, and gladly paid for the fees out of their own pockets. Everyone pitched in to revitalize Hogwarts, to create reforms in the corrupted and depilated Ministry of Magic. 

No child should go through that sort of hell ever again. 

It was pure relief to hear that Harry Potter would be coming back. Pure joy and hope to hear that he vanquished You-Know-Who finally and that the world could re-tilt itself back on its axis again. 

When she heard the news about Brown, about _Lavender_ , she stopped in mid process of helping a younger student wrap a bandage around a cursed leg. The student was young, second year. Female, with a squashed nose and slightly puffy cheeks but with a stellar personality and a quick learner too. Hufflepuff, and her last name was Johns. She remembered that much. 

It was the day that she knew her world would be forever off its axis. 

Seventh year sped by quickly, dealing with the trauma of sixth year and the war by studying. At the end, she had several acceptance letters from various acceptable wizards for apprenticeship. She went off into the world. She applied to the Aurors, and spent her twenties working and numbing her mind to the realities of a world after a war. Death did not go away, or pain, or tragedy. She became reliable with spells and charms, and not just the ones meant for deduction or capture. Eventually, she took on her latest assignment: Charms Professor of Hogwarts. 

Surprisingly, she did make a good Professor. She was careful and caring towards the students, not wanting to follow in the footsteps of her predecessors…like Dumbledore or Snape, Slughorn, teachers far in the past that lost name, but left scars. Diligently, like a good Ravenclaw, she worked and improved and soothed arguments where she saw fit. She watched and aged as students would come pouring into Hogwarts, fresh faces filled with awe, and older, wiser students pour out, faces turned up to the future of a brighter world. She helped with some reforms, which made the encouragement of actual inter-house rivalry from teachers against the rules (Quidditch was another story.) She lived and breathed the school now, and with the other Professors, they added extra wards and charms around the school to make sure no one ever tried and destroy the school again. She worked day and night, being the good Charms Professor and always putting her students that she swore to protect and nurture, that should never see the hell she witnessed once when she was a student, over her own needs. 

But every year she’d take two days off; once in the spring and the other in the autumn. Both times she would either visit a long gray wall, filled with shimmering golden names, or a small yet stylish gravestone on a small plot in Britain, carrying a bouquet of mixed flowers, and always the same type: Lavenders surrounded by dark red roses. No baby’s breath, no extra ferns, merely a small, modest bouquet of flowers, with the thorns still trying to prick her fingers through the plain, unadorned paper “vase.” 

She would stand in front of a certain part of the wall, staring up at a glimmering, golden name. Or she would look down at a name, so lovingly, so sentimentally etched into stone. She would stand there all day, staring, contemplating the name in front of her eyes until the sun faded from the sky and her eyes began to hurt from staring at the same thing for hours on end. No one knew where she went on these meetings; after all, it’s not like she personally knew anyone from the older crowd, actually knew any of the old Gryffindors. 

But she would be staring at a name etched into stone, thinking about a smiling face as words about the future floated from that smiling mouth and eventually, the bouquet of flowers would finally be delicately placed from her numb hands. And eventually, when she had stumbled back to her bedroom, her head would bow under the weight of her thoughts. 

And she would weep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are appreciated, but I won't demand. I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
